Cover Her Face Read Free

Samuel Bocock were only two hundred yards from the house and the other side of the home meadow. Old Bocock was there, polishing harness by the light of a hurricane lamp and whistling through his teeth. He was asmall brown man with a gnome-like face, slanting of eye and wide of mouth, whose pleasure at seeing Stephen was apparent. They all went to have a look at the three horses with which Bocock was attempting to establish his little business. Really, thought Catherine, it was ridiculous the fuss that Deborah made of them, nuzzling up to their faces with soft endearments as if they were human. Frustrated maternal instinct, she thought disagreeably. Do her good to expend some of that energy on the children’s ward. Not that she would be much use.
    She herself wished that they could go back to the house. The stable was scrupulously clean but there is no disguising the strong smell of horses after exercise and, for some reason, Catherine found it disturbing. At one time, Stephen’s lean brown hand lay close to hers on the animal’s neck. The urge to touch that hand, to stroke it, even to raise it to her lips was momentarily so strong that she had to close her eyes. And then, in the darkness, came other remembered pictures, shamefully pleasant, of that same hand half-circled around her breast, even browner against her whiteness, and moving slowly and lovingly, the harbinger of delight.
    She half-staggered out into the spring twilight and heard behind her the slow, hesitant speech of Bocock and the eager Maxie voices replying together. In that moment she knew again one of those devastating moments of panic which had descended upon her at intervals since she had loved Stephen. They came unheralded and all her common sense and willpower were helpless against them. They were moments when everything seemed unreal and she could almost physically feel the sand shifting beneath her hopes. All her misery and uncertainty focused itself on Deborah. It was Deborah who was the enemy. Deborah who had been married, who had atleast had her chance of happiness. Deborah who was pretty and selfish and useless. Listening to the voices behind her in the growing darkness Catherine felt sick with hate.
    By the time they had returned to Martingale she had pulled herself together again and the black pall had lifted. She was restored to her normal condition of confidence and assurance. She went early to bed and, in the conviction of her present mood, she could almost believe that he might come to her. She told herself that it would be impossible in his father’s house, an act of folly on his part, an intolerable abuse of hospitality on hers. But she waited in the darkness. After a while she heard footsteps on the stairs—his footsteps and Deborah’s. Brother and sister were laughing softly together. They did not even pause as they passed her door.

2
    Upstairs in the low white-painted bedroom which had been his since childhood Stephen stretched himself on his bed.
    “I’m tired,” he said.
    “Me too.” Deborah yawned and sat down on the bed beside him. “It was a rather grim dinner-party. I wish Mummy wouldn’t do it.”
    “They’re all such hypocrites.”
    “They can’t help it. They were brought up that way. Besides, I don’t think that Eppy and Mr. Hinks have much wrong with them.”
    “I suppose I made rather a fool of myself,” said Stephen.
    “Well, you were rather vehement. Rather like Sir Galahad plunging to the defence of the wronged maiden, except that she was probably more sinning than sinned against.”
    “You don’t like her, do you?” asked Stephen.
    “My sweet, I haven’t thought about it. She just works here. I know that sounds very reactionary to your enlightened notions but it isn’t meant to be. It’s just that I’m not interested in her one way or the other, nor she, I imagine, in me.”
    “I’m sorry for her.” There was a trace of truculence in Stephen’s voice.
    “That was pretty obvious at